Unfair

A Columbia Law student, driving a taxi for the summer, picked up a bunch of babbling young men at El Morocco and asked if they had gone to Princeton. "Yes," one of them replied. "What class?" the driver asked. "1955". "Oh, I was in the class of '46," said the driver.

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As the years passed, Tom grew more entrenched in his homelessness. He was absorbed in lofty fantasies and private missions, aware of the basest necessities and the most transcendent abstractions, and almost nothing in between.